Someone Else's Conflict

by Alison Layland

  ‘Less of the sweet talk,’ she said, turning back to drain the vegetables and put them in serving dishes he’d left to warm with two plates.

  ‘Only being appreciative.’ He grinned. ‘But I’d better shut up or you’ll have me out in that barn before you can say garrulus glandarius.’

  ‘I’m not likely to do either of those. What did you say that meant?’

  ‘Posh name for the jay.’

  She laughed. ‘Suits you.’

  ‘Garrulous? That’s why I remember it.’

  He reached out and took the plate she handed him, put it down quickly and shook his hands dramatically. ‘Ouch – hot.’

  As she watched him begin to attack the food on his plate – there was no other way to think of it – she wondered just who it was she’d taken in.

  ‘What were your plans? Before…this.’

  ‘I don’t usually do plans,’ he said as if that answered everything, before devoting his full attention to his long-awaited square meal.

  She watched Genghis make his cautious way round the edge of the kitchen, drawn through to the living room by the warmth of the fire. He eventually settled in its warm glow, tucking paws and tail in neatly but keeping his head alert, like a ship about to set sail across the rug. Marilyn thought that if the cat could accept the presence of this man in the house, perhaps she should put away her doubts. They ate in a not-uncomfortable silence. Jay wolfed his plate clear in no time and glanced at her, eyebrows raised, hand already on its way to the pot.

  ‘Help yourself to more.’

  He made short work of a second helping, sitting back satisfied as she finished her first.

  ‘Thanks for all this, Polly,’ he said as she topped up their wine glasses.

  ‘Marilyn.’

  ‘Polly originally comes from Mary, did you know that? Mary – or Marilyn – became Molly became Polly. I think it suits you.’

  ‘Makes me sound like an old woman.’

  He drank. ‘Age is the product of one thing alone – the time that’s gone by from when you were born to the present. I don’t see that what people call you has anything to do with it.’

  Chapter 5

  Vinko walked quickly along litter-strewn streets towards the house he currently called home, hands shoved in his pockets. After a couple of hours in his room catching up on some sleep, he intended to take himself off to the multiplex where he’d slide in for free under cover of a rowdy group, beneath notice of the ticket collectors. He’d often lose himself in the cathartic bombardment of sight and sound offered by an action film. It was especially appealing today. He felt on edge. Angry with himself. Whatever his grandparents’ new address meant, he should have gone to see them. He wasn’t scared of the meeting, of course he wasn’t, merely angry with himself for being over-cautious.

  He rounded a corner and came within view of the house. A silver car he hadn’t seen for months was parked alongside the kerb. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see it now. Fairly certain he wouldn’t have been noticed, he paused, then made himself continue walking. Didn’t he want answers? He’d done enough putting-off this weekend. The windows were tinted and he peered in vain as he approached, checking involuntarily for the knife in his pocket. His uncle, Mihal Novak, had always been as good to him as he could have expected, but nothing was certain; it paid to be alert. The driver’s window swished down as he approached and an arm beckoned him over to the passenger door. Vinko walked resolutely up to the driver’s side. He wanted answers, but he’d do this on his own terms. Novak greeted him in Croatian and Vinko replied courteously enough in the same language, standing close to the car with his hands still shoved into his pockets.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ Vinko said.

  ‘Sorry about that. I’ve been busy. I tried to call but you weren’t answering.’

  ‘My phone died. I got a new one.’

  ‘You didn’t think to give me your number?’

  ‘I texted it. Didn’t you get it?’

  He knew Novak would recognise the lie for what it was.

  ‘You’d better give it to me now.’

  Vinko rattled off a set of random digits – he’d felt abandoned; this time he’d be in control of any communication. A petty victory, but any victory at all was a rare treat.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked as his uncle entered the number.

  ‘It’s not important. I’m here now, aren’t I?’

  ‘I assumed you’d gone. Done your bit for me and left me to it.’

  ‘That’s why you changed your number – sulking, hey?’

  ‘I’m not some little kid,’ Vinko muttered.

  ‘Look, there’s absolutely no reason why I should justify myself to you, but an old friend called. Important job, needed my help. OK?’

  ‘You’re obviously a very unselfish man. Always off helping people.’

  Novak gave no indication he’d noticed the irony in Vinko’s voice. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Go and smarten yourself up. We’ll have a meal, then we can go back to mine for some beers and a film.’

  Vinko didn’t argue. A free meal was enticing and his uncle’s DVD collection was at least as good as what was usually on offer at the cinema. The house itself was nothing special, but better than anywhere he’d ever lived. On the few occasions he’d been he’d found it a decent enough place to spend an evening.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  The restaurant was half-empty, a few lunch-time parties lingering, not yet time for the early evening sitting, and Vinko made a conscious effort not to feel out of place. He tucked into his steak greedily, glancing occasionally at the man he’d once thought of as his saviour. Mihal Novak had found them in Dresden and offered to help. He’d been too late for Vinko’s mother, but had eventually arranged for him to come to England, even getting him a job and a place to live. It wasn’t much of a job, not much of a place to live, but last year he’d welcomed both as a new start.

  ‘Have you seen them yet?’

  Vinko knew without asking who he meant.

  ‘It was the wrong address.’

  ‘Can’t you get anything right?’ A flash of anger Vinko had seen before briefly crossed Novak’s face. ‘What do you mean, the wrong address?’

  ‘They moved. The woman who lives there now—’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘I don’t know; the woman who lives there. She said they moved a few months ago. How come you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know, did I?’ His tone added, do you think I’m stupid? ‘Why would I? I’m not in touch with them anymore; their precious daughter divorced me, remember? So, did this woman give you the new address?’ Vinko nodded. ‘Where are they living now?’

  ‘Some place I’d never heard of. I can’t remember and it’s in my other pocket, sorry.’ He patted the jeans he’d changed into, to emphasise the point. In fact it was next to his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he chose not to pass it on just yet.

  ‘I take it you didn’t go?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was only this morning. I’ll go when I’m ready.’ Something inside him had always kept him away, as if preserving the dream until reality crept in to spoil it. The new address prolonged the respite. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter. Whether or not they accept me you don’t need to feel responsible. I can look after myself.’

  ‘That’s perfectly obvious, my boy.’ His smile seemed forced. ‘Did she say why they’d moved?’ Vinko sensed a reason behind the question, and chewed a mouthful of steak instead of replying. Novak stared at him for a moment. ‘Well? Did she mention any…change in their circumstances?’

  ‘Why should she? Why would she even know?’

  His uncle nodded slowly. ‘I hope it’s not too late.’

  ‘Too late?’

  ‘Vinko, lad, there’s something I haven’t been telling you. My mistake. I thought it best not to affect the way you were with them. But you’re taking so long. What�
��s the problem? Don’t you want to see your family? Anyway, this changes it.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Someone I know, someone who knew your family, tells me there’s some money of his that may have come their way. Money they shouldn’t have. I’d like you to help me find out, and if it’s true, help me get it back for my friend. You’d be rewarded.’

  Vinko concentrated on his last few chips, then speared the final piece of meat. As he chewed he tried to settle his thoughts, knowing Novak was watching his every move. The dream was shattering, here, now, before he’d even met them.

  ‘How?’ he said eventually. ‘What could I do? I haven’t been near them yet.’

  He took an inelegant gulp of red wine and listened as Novak suggested he find a way – how was entirely up to him – to lay his hands on the relevant bank account details, and he and his contacts would do the rest. Vinko would get a generous share. He remained noncommital. Apart from his uncle, whom he didn’t particularly like despite his wining, dining and home entertainment system, they were the only family Vinko had. If he was to meet them, he wanted to get to know them properly, not start by stealing from them.

  ‘They’re not the dream family you want them to be.’ It was as if Novak could read his mind. ‘And anyway, they need never know your part in it.’

  Vinko stared at his empty plate, fingers drumming on his thigh.

  ‘Don’t you want a chance to earn some real money? Think of all the stuff you’ve done before. This is easy in comparison. You’re not even stealing – this money isn’t theirs.’

  ‘Why can’t you do it?’

  ‘How thick are you?’ His tone was low, in keeping with the surroundings, but menacing enough to make Vinko tense. ‘How many times do I have to say? They won’t let me near.’

  ‘Sorry. But what if I don’t want to get involved?’

  Novak leaned back, composure restored. ‘Then you take your chance.’

  The nature of the man’s smile told Vinko that ‘chance’ meant more than whether or not he got to know his grandparents, whether or not he eventually saw any share of the money. He wanted to leave.

  Outside, he thanked his uncle for the meal but claimed tiredness after a sleepless night as an excuse for going straight home. They drove back in silence and it seemed an age before they came to Vinko’s street.

  ‘Go and see your grandparents,’ his uncle said as he pulled over to the kerb, ‘and let me know how you get on.’

  Vinko had his hand on the door catch but Novak stopped him. ‘Check your phone for me, will you?’

  Vinko got it out reluctantly.

  ‘Any messages?’ His uncle gripped his arm, looked at the empty inbox. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake with your number, my boy.’

  Vinko muttered an excuse as he gave him the correct one. He waited impatiently, fingers tapping restlessly, for the test call to come through.

  ‘No need to apologise,’ said Novak cheerfully. ‘I like your thinking. You know, Vinko, I’ve enjoyed getting to know you. Now I’m looking forward to working with you.’

  Chapter 6

  Marilyn insisted they left the washing up until morning and they settled down in front of the living room fire. Jay produced a pipe and a tooled leather pouch.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Just tobacco.’

  She surprised herself by believing him. ‘Go ahead. I don’t mind at all. Most of it’ll go up the chimney anyway.’

  She watched him intent on the job of filling the smooth wooden bowl, collecting up every crumb of spilt tobacco.

  ‘You don’t see many of those these days. Surely cigs are easier?’

  He rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Commonplace. Anyway, you can’t beat this.’ He crumbled a flake of tobacco between his fingers and held it out for her to smell. ‘If you’re going to do a job do it well, I say.’

  He produced a Zippo from the pouch and disappeared momentarily in a cloud of fragrant smoke. She breathed in luxuriously, suppressing one of the rare moments of regret she’d felt since giving up. Something else she’d determined to change about her life when she and Matt split up.

  ‘If I ever did settle it would probably be somewhere like this,’ said Jay out of the blue. ‘Woods, trees. A mighty forest. The kind of forest travellers get lost in. For days. Wandering round and round, trees looking the same, each clearing a relief until you realise there are more trees the other side of it… Until you come to one with a house. A house not unlike this one. Like the house the children came to.’

  ‘The children?’

  ‘In the story.’

  Story? After a day in which her world, or the Stoneleigh part of it, had literally been turned upside down, not even the idea of listening to a man she hardly knew telling stories in her own living room seemed strange. It was good not to have to think for a while. Let him do the talking.

  ‘They’d been walking for days.’ He waved the pipe in a gesture that encompassed days, weeks, months. ‘They’d lost everything – homes, friends, families – just the three of them left there were, two boys and a girl. They’d also lost their pursuers. Outrun them, outwitted them. Outraged them. And now they were free. They didn’t want freedom; they wanted to go home. But their homes no longer existed, so freedom was their only choice. They had no food, it was cold. Then they came to a house in a clearing. They were afraid; they’d learned to fear everyone they didn’t know. But where else could they go? The oldest boy knocked, and an old woman answered.

  ‘“Come in, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  ‘She invited them in to the warm fire and fed them with a hot, wholesome broth. As the younger two were falling asleep in the cosy cupboard bed at the side of the room, the oldest boy asked: “How did you know about us?”

  ‘“The forest told me. If you hadn’t arrived I’d have come to find you.”

  ‘She led him to join the others under the warm blankets. As he drifted off to sleep he half-opened his eyes and thought he saw a huge raven circling the room before it flew out through the window. He called out to the old woman once in his fear but there was no answer and sleep soon overtook him.

  ‘The next day the children were allowed to rest, but after that the old woman had them working for her. The youngest boy swept the house, the girl gathered and prepared the food, the oldest boy tended the pigs and collected firewood. The old woman slept by day as they worked, but every afternoon she woke up, looked over the work they’d done and gave them a hearty meal from the ingredients the girl had prepared. Every night they ate the food she gave them and fell asleep straight away afterwards in the cosy bed, grateful for the new home she’d given them. Sometimes, the oldest boy thought he saw the raven leaving the room, or returning before dawn, but mostly he was too tired to give it a second thought, and by morning he’d forget. One day, the oldest boy looked at the girl as he fed the fire while she sat spinning.

  ‘“What were we sad about when we came here?”

  ‘“I don’t remember.” She looked at the youngest boy who was polishing the old woman’s shoes. “Do you remember feeling sad?”

  ‘The little boy shook his head. He couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t lived in the cottage in the woods. The girl realised she only had a few vague pictures in her head of her home, and after a few days those had gone too. They continued, strangely content. The oldest boy couldn’t remain content for long. He wanted to know who he was. He tried and tried to remember why they were there, why they had been sad, but it was no use. The others began to get annoyed with him for fretting. He never dared ask the woman they had come to know as Grandmother.

  ‘One day, he was collecting firewood and he cut his hand on a thorn. He saw his own blood drip onto a leaf. He looked up and saw the black and white flash of a magpie watching him. The bird spoke and the boy nearly dropped his bundle of sticks in surprise.

  ‘“What’s the matter, young man?”

  ‘“We’re hap
py here, Grandmother looks after us, but I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  ‘And the magpie said, “She wants children. She wants to keep you here as her own. She’ll care for you, but she’ll never let you remember in case you decide to leave.”

  ‘“I want to go back. I want to remember.”

  ‘“Your memories will bring you sadness. Are you sure?” said the magpie.

  ‘“I want to be myself,” said the boy.

  ‘The magpie told him not to eat the food the old woman gave him. He would have to leave that very night – he would have no choice, as the old woman would know. She was at her most dangerous in her raven-winged night, but if the boy waited until morning she would trap him.

  ‘The boy’s cut began to scab over and as the blood dried the magpie’s voice became a bird’s screech as it flapped off. The boy ran back to the cottage and called the girl and the youngest boy to him. But to his dismay, he couldn’t remember what the magpie had told him. Soon he had forgotten what kind of bird had spoken, if it had happened at all. The girl huffed and went back to her spinning, and the little boy went out to dig some potatoes for their meal, singing to himself. The older boy was sad; not the deep sadness they’d been running from, but regret that he couldn’t remember something beautiful, and his friends wouldn’t help him remember.

  ‘That evening he caught the cut on his hand as he was feeding the fire and he watched a bead of blood well up. He felt lightheaded.

  ‘“I don’t want any supper tonight, thank you,” he told the old woman. “I’m not feeling well.”

  ‘She peered at him. “Did anything happen while you were out?”

  ‘“Nothing,” he said, and she seemed to believe him.

  ‘He went to bed and she brought him a bowl of steaming broth. “You must try and eat something to keep your strength up.”

  ‘He nodded and put the bowl to his lips, but only pretended to drink. “It’s too hot. I’ll drink it once it’s cooled.”

  ‘The old woman bustled off to watch over the other two and he rolled over and tipped the contents between the bed and the wall. When she came back he feigned a wan smile. “Thank you. I feel much better now.”